


We Don't Talk About It

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Past Relationship(s), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And she feels both freedom and oppression, both that she is savior and she is betrayer, both Jesus and Judas.  Coda fic to "Knight Takes Queen".</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Talk About It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts), [songdances](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songdances/gifts).



> Written for the prompt "in an unusual place" because, hey, what's more unusual than having sex in a nunnery? :D/ W- wheee...

His touch is soft, gentle and trembling – and she can envision how confident his touch would be, if he didn’t look as if he were falling apart at the seams. He touches her hair as if it is sacred, as if he cannot believe that he is holding her – and she likes to think she can do this for him, that she can gain something of him, and she, in turn, can find something to soothe him away. There is a comfort in getting what she wants, what she needs, but there is a distinct lack of comfort, too, when he breaks the kiss and looks at her as if he is drowning, as if he does not remember what it is to breathe, what it is to live. 

He is at once above her, against her, and a thousand miles away – to distant lands, to distant times. His back, arched, aches with the dragging shadow of a dead lover, with a long lost child. She knows that pain, at least – she knows it well. A hollow ache that claws at her insides, every moment, and she knows she will never forget. Nor will he. 

She touches his cheek, traces her thumb along the line of skin and hair of his beard, and drops her hands to touch at his braces, sliding them off his shoulders and letting them fall, letting the soft, worn fabric of his tunic slide from one shoulder. She touches his scars, as if she will harm him and apologizes while she can, thrives on the way his breath hitches and slides away, as if he still cannot believe. 

There is some shadow of sacrilege to lying upon this bed, nestled inside the womb of a nunnery – somehow even worse than the sin of lying with a man who is not her husband. She touches his shoulders, slides her fingers along the shapely bones of his collar and neck, holds to him – anchors him down, draws him in and kisses him. There is no sweeter innocence, and no sweeter sin, perhaps, than laying herself bare in a house of God – she already knows she is damned, but she will take that chance, will take that for what it is. 

“I…” Aramis begins, his voice having gone deeper, snagging on the words that won’t come out – and Anne kisses him deeper, then, throws her cares to the wind, damns discretion for the sweet taste of his mouth, the scratch of his beard against her cheeks, the heavy press of his hands upon her waist, curling tight into the shift of her dress. 

She pauses in her undressing of Aramis just to look up at him, traces her fingers over his collarbone, drags down the heavy chain of the cross he wears, her favor. His breath hitches painfully in his throat, and she lifts her eyes to look up at him, finds him staring at her again like she is both salvation and damnation. 

She feels herself smile – reassuring, she hopes – and touches his cheeks again, cupping them, drawing him in and kissing him back to life. He responds to her, making a soft sound before pressing closer, pulling him in close and she welcomes it, opening her mouth to his tongue, sliding her arms around his neck, fingers curling into his tunic. 

She draws him back, but only so she can slide the sleeves of her dress and draw it down, baring herself to him, naked from the waist up. She almost feels shy, almost feels as if she is but a maiden again, and she glances up at him to find him looking at her like she is precious – and she can envision that this is a way he looks at many women who lie beneath him. Instead of the spark of jealousy she expects, it only makes her squirm a little under his gaze. 

He touches her waist, fingers gliding up along her ribs, along the soft touch of skin below her breasts, then up, one hand cupping her as he leans in and kisses her again. His touch is desperate, a dying man searching for breath, and she opens herself up to him, shivers under the touch of his hands, his touch gentle and almost relaxed. She presses closer to him, needy with it, wanting him to push her onto the bed, climb over her, fill her up until this is all she can feel – until, perhaps, the shadows pass from his eyes and he only sees her, if only for one night. 

She wonders what he is like to his lovers, when he is not torn apart with longing and mourning. She wonders what his smile looks like, how warm his eyes can be, how gentle and teasing his smiles and touches and lips might be, if this were a happy occasion. 

He pulls from her and he smiles and their breath mingles for half a moment before she inches up closer to him again, parts her mouth and kisses him again – and this time she’s the one desperate for it. Her hands touch his hair, touch the back of his neck, slide down his back and fist in his tunic again, and pulls back only to yank it off of him. It is a simple movement and yet she feels drunk with the boldness of it, drags her hands down his chest and over his sides, presses up close to him so that her breasts are against his chest and he curls his arms around her and cups the back of her head, kissing her. 

When he pulls back, his forehead presses to hers briefly, and she touches his face, looks at him and tries to see beyond that pain and that mourning, tries to see the man who threw himself against her in order to protect her, tries to see the passion and the carefree attitude she’d always perceived from him and now wonders if it’d simply been an illusion all along. 

“Aramis,” she says, quietly, and wonders if he will say her name back. 

Instead, he closes his eyes to the name, smiles fleetingly, and kisses her – light and gentle and still a touch desperate. 

She moves to lie on her back, lifts her hips to pull off her dress the rest of the way, naked now beneath him, resisting the urge to cover herself and instead stays still for his inspection. He’s struggling to pull himself free of his own clothes, distracted with looking at her, and she reaches out to help him. 

She arches up as he slides out his breeches, and moves over her, kissing her gently, reminding her that she is merely a woman, a person of flesh, and she presses to him, easing her hips up in invitation. He ducks down, kissing over her breasts, over each nipple and to the dip between her breasts, his lips curled into a small, secretive smile, the scratch of his beard making her shiver. He makes a soft, humming sound against the softness of her skin, tongue and lips drifting over her collarbone, the curve of her breasts, suckling the nipples into his mouth and then moving to kiss along the underside of each one, and she knows she is wet from something so simple, yet so sincere, wet already with the knowledge that it is Aramis above her, Aramis touching her, Aramis desiring her. His hands touch at her breasts, his hands gentle and soft, but roughed from the years as a soldier, his thumbs and fingers calloused from where they circle over her breasts, soft and gentle – ever a gentleman as he looks up at her, kissing the swells of her breasts. 

He nips, very delicate, at her breast, and she breathes out, shaky, biting her lip to hold back a higher, less dignified sound, and she moves beneath him, touches at his hair, curling tight into it – but not quite pulling. His smile only grows at that, and she’s mesmerized by it as he kisses over her breasts, down along her collar and shoulders, then back down again, a shadow of teeth, but mostly tongue and lips, eyes flickering up to look at her as if he still can’t believe it’s her that he sees. 

“Shall I…” she begins to ask, her hands fluttering over his shoulders, moving as if to drift downwards, to seek out his cock, to draw him in closer. 

But he shakes his head and at once seems too far away. “No,” he says, his breath hot against her skin, and he ducks his head to press kisses to each breast, in between them, to the spot of her chest below them. He does not look at her. “No, let me do this.” 

And then he moves further away from her touch, and she lets him, watches him kiss down her stomach, lips brushing over her naval, tongue tracing out patterns across her skin, his hands touching her hips, and she shivers, shifts a little, spreads her legs and lifts her hips – saying nothing, but pointed. 

He obeys her, moving between her thighs, parting her legs fully, his hands roughed but gentle against her, hands sliding along her inner thighs, cupping the back of her knees to draw her legs up. He’s looking at her, and she flushes with pleasure at it, knows she is wet and hopes that he likes what he sees, hopes that she meets his approval, hopes that she is enough to draw him back to himself again. 

She wishes to touch him, too, wishes to have him inside of her – and this will not be enough, she knows. But she gasps out as he leans in, spreads her legs further and kisses over her slick flesh, tongue touching at her in a fluttering motion, tongue touching her clit and causing her to keen quietly, hands touching his hair for lack of anything else she can reach. 

He folds into her, fingers sliding over her thighs and up to where his mouth is, parting her, tongue sliding over her, exploring each fold, swiping over her in gentle increments and then with steadily more pressure, tracing out little patterns against her flesh. She angles her hips, shamelessly, drapes her legs over his shoulders to draw him in further, to press him up close, to dive into the feeling of him between her legs – the brush of his nose against her inner thigh, his tongue lapping at her, pressing into her slowly and drawing back out again to circle around her clit. 

She, perhaps shamefully, did not know it could feel like this – and she cries out quietly, in encouragement, biting her lip and not quite thrashing, but arching into the touch. His tongue touches all over her, first the tip, then the flat of it, and his fingers touch at the outer folds of her body, holds her open to his scrutiny and attention. 

She can envision that this is how he treats the other women he’s had in the past. She can picture him when he is at his best, when he is not in mourning, picture the way he would tease, much like he is now but so much worse. Can picture him all smiles, all laughter, all gentle cooing words and ministrations. She feels exceptionally, delightfully _ordinary_ under him, and it is something she’s never known she wanted until that very moment – to be ordinary, anything but a queen. She can picture what it would be like, under the different circumstances, out from underneath the oppressive weight of the dead and dying, under the oppressive weight of God’s good graces. If he were not in mourning, if she were not the ghost of lost lovers and lost children, she would still be just a woman, not a queen. And that beautiful, wonderful feeling of ordinary is exactly what leaves her feeling extraordinary and cherished. 

He does not look up at her again, so focused in his task, pressing one finger into her to join the slide of his tongue, and she makes a soft, filthy sound at that and she can feel the curve of Aramis’ small smile against her, and then he sucks her clit into his mouth, suckling and licking, effortlessly gentle as his finger hooks up inside of her, spreads her open, leaves her bare. 

She feels loose-limbed, like she never has before, or at least in a very long time – and the mounting of pleasure is overwhelming and not enough. He is far away from her. She cannot reach him, and she knows, if she lets him, he will make her come like this, stretched out and away from him. And she just wants him to not be lost, to find himself in her, if only for one night. 

She pulls on his hair as he licks and drags his lips over her, finger pressed into her, a second joining it after a moment and spreading her open as he licks into her. She gasps out, forgets her words for a moment, and merely lets him do as much – and she arches, crying out gently, her entire body shuddering. She is so wet, so slick, and so ready for him – and her words leave her. 

He drags his tongue over her, licks in small little flicks and then drags the flat of his tongue over his fingers, inside of her, and then up, circling around her clit. 

And she holds back as much as she can, resists the urge to come even with the building of pleasure coiling deep inside of her and she’s arching up and moaning, loudly, rocking her hips down onto his hand. He kisses her hips, her stomach, her inner thighs, and then ducks his head again to lick over her as she shudders, her body taut, and his touch is achingly tender. 

“Wait,” she whispers, and he stops. 

She pulls him back, pushes, moves until he’s sprawled across his back and she’s climbing up over him, legs straddling over his thighs, feeling the thick heat of his cock press up against her, slicked and ready, and they both gasp a little – hers quiet, almost inaudible, and his deep and longing. 

She touches him, fingers curled around his cock, and he makes a soft sound – not quite of surprise and not quite of protest. She looks at him as she strokes him, bold and unrepentant now, hoping to coax away the darkness that keeps falling into his eyes. He hisses out a little, lifts his hips into her hand. She squeezes around him and then guides him to her entrance slowly, sinking down slowly onto him. 

She gasps out, quiet, holding still even as he shudders, waiting to adjust to the press of his cock inside of her. She can feel the drag of him as she pulls herself down over him, can feel his hands on her hips, on her thighs, up along her back. One hand still curled around the base of his cock, she reaches out with her other hand, bracing herself against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest and heart, but also the soft hitch of his breath. 

She looks at him, and it is not only pleasure she sees. Just the feel of him is enough to make her body shudder, the press of his cock inside of her, and she slips down over him until he bottoms out inside of her and she’s pressed down to him, hands shaking and body taut – already so close to coming that the strange feeling of penetration only pushes her closer. She arches a little, sighing out, both hands touching his chest now. He squeezes her hips. 

She rides him steadily, and his hands are tight on her. He doesn’t attempt to guide, to set a pace, to do anything – he just stares up at her, his lips slightly parted, staring at her, drinking her in – the slide of her hair over one shoulder, the gentle bounce of her breasts, the curve of her stomach as she arches and bends, the obscene way her body takes him in. 

He looks up at her, touching her hips, as if she is salvation itself. He looks up at her as if he is both damned and blessed. He looks up at her and he still looks as if he may cry again, but he grips her tight, guides her down onto his cock, and she rides him, hair falling into her face as she ducks her head – and she feels both freedom and oppression, both that she is savior and she is betrayer, both Jesus and Judas. 

In another lifetime, she could have loved him. 

He gasps out a flurry of words, in Spanish, and she smiles to him, ducking her head down to kiss him, to mouth out the words of her native tongue against his, until he can swallow it all. 

When she pulls back, though, again it is not pleasure she sees – again, she hears the hitch of his breath—

And quite unexpected to her, Aramis turns his head and starts to cry, blinking back the tears and holding back the gasp of a sob. She freezes above him, hips firmly planted against him, clenching around his cock. 

“Aramis—”

He seems just as surprised as she does, wiping at his eyes quickly and sitting up, keeping her in his lap, her legs curling tight around his waist and his arms turning to hold her close, but he presses his face to her shoulder and says nothing, shoulders rigid. She can feel him going slightly limp inside of her and she wiggles her hips in an attempt to coax him. 

“Aramis,” she says again, softer this time, petting his hair.

“Forgive me, I don’t—” he begins and, she supposes, finds himself speechless. She shushes him gently, fingers petting through his hair, cradling him, drawing his face down until his cheek presses to her chest, against her heartbeat. She rocks her hips slightly, coaxes him back to her, and kisses his temple. 

“It’s alright,” she whispers. She pets him, strokes her hands over him, and strokes herself down on his cock. “Shh… it’s alright.”

Like this, there is a vulnerability – a kind of beauty, even now. Even when haunted, there is a beauty to the shape of his eyes, the lilt of his smile, the touch of his hands against her back as he clings to her, nails digging in for a brief moment against her back. He sobs. 

She pushes him back slightly, to angle his hips, and rides against him even as he cries against her shoulder, whispers for her not to stop, whispers that she’s beautiful, that she is amazing, that she is heaven—

And he comes inside of her with a sharp, gasping cry, and her shoulder is wet with his tears even as she rocks down against him, milks him dry inside of her, fills her empty womb with a promise. He cries out, softly, the hitching and shudder of breath, and his lips move over her shoulder, mouthing out a name that is not hers. A quiet plea to a life lost this day. 

“Shhh,” she soothes, and kisses his hair and temple and the curve of his ear. She nuzzles into his hair as she rides against him, seeking her own pleasure once his starts to ebb. “Shhh, you’re alright.” 

“Anne,” he gasps out, tears falling down his cheeks when he turns his head to place a reverent kiss to the hollow of her throat. His breath his hitched, the simple sound of her name wobbling and mournful. 

Even like this, he is beautiful. Even like this, there is salvation.


End file.
